Sherlock inhaled and his head lolled forward. Time swirled about him in his perfumed smoke. When he looked up, he saw a figure at the bar, the head curiously inclined to view him.
"What do you want? An autograph?" Sherlock gruffly inquired.
"You're famous?" came an amused drawl.
"Only the most famous detective in London. Have you been living under a rock?"
"Congratulations, Detective. I see you're not working now-", Sherlock smirked at the man, "and in answer to your question, after decades I too consider travelling The Continent akin to living under a rock, if one were to judge it by quality of news."
Sherlock's vision began to return to him, the figure of the man was slim and fashionable, by the cut of the coat, which was eerily similar to his own.
"I don't read the news, I make it." A thoughtful pause cut through the haze of Sherlock's mind, as the cogs began to whir.
"What a beautiful sentiment, Mister...?"
"Holmes. And whom might you be?"
"Gray, but you, dear Detective, may call me Dorian." The figure emerged forward into the candlelight, a face little more than twenty seasons young. Dorian hesitated at arm's distance from the Detective, wondering what kind of law enforcer would be found in this district, let alone leisuring. Dorian extended his hand confidently. This man could prove an ally, should their interests align.
Smooth movement. Pale. Long fingers. Sherlock shook it firmly, testing the boy's response. A man replied in kind. Sherlock veiled his surprise. So, then, this man-child is rich, spoilt rotten and probably plays the piano tolerably well.
"Where are your parents, boy?"
Dorian laughed heartily. This worried Sherlock, such a laissez-faire reaction? Unnatural. This Dorian was something quite strange.
"They are long since dead, Mr Holmes. They died when I was a babe."
"All of a few months, then?" Sherlock grinned, knowing he shouldn't be flirting with someone so seemingly young, but his intuition whispered that this Dorian was far more than he seemed.
"All of your flattery, kind Sir, and you do not tell me your forename?" Dorian was conniving, he knew slipping in sexual words like fore- serruptitiously elicited vaguely sexual feelings from his victims.
Sherlock caught on, this man was of age and not only that, but active with his sex.
"My friends call me Sherlock." He bowed his head respectfully.
"Then I will call you such pre-emptively. Join me for a tipple?" Dorian put on a look of hopeful innocence and thumbed back over at the bar.
"From a man with such wonderful fashion sense, how could I refuse?" Dorian smiled, pleased at the small victory and steered Sherlock with a hand on the small of his back, testing to see if the action was taken well. To his surprise, Sherlock draped an arm over Dorian and squeezed his shoulder like an old chum.
They sat at the bar side by side. As if competitors in a drinking game, they downed countless servings of gin.
"As you are the famous party, Sherlock, tell me of your investigations." Flattery is the fastest way to valuable information, Dorian found. If this detective was tasked with Basil's case, he could be a fun tap. Sherlock wondered why he was fishing. He never trusted anyone who would flatter him, particularly about his work. No one ever asked about his work unless their interest was vested. A distraction was required.
"Oh no, my boy, my paperwork mountains and board bores are not appropriate bar talk. Please, tell me of your travels! I must have misheard you earlier, you sounded as though you'd said decades!" Sherlock slapped his thigh, laughing uproarously. "How proposterous, for a face so unlined, untouched by the scars of age!" His hand gently swiped Dorian's face.
Dorian sat quietly stroking his empty glass. This man has access to his birth records, he could not lie this time. "Actually, whilst you were discovering your mountains of paperwork, I rather believe that I discovered the fountain of youth."
"No such thing."
"Say that to my face."
They both burst out laughing. Little did they know, each was expertly faking it and silently judging the other.